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I have a lead.
Cora?
M.
It’s a soft lead, but it’s a start.
I’ll be back at the hospital in about twenty minutes.
We’ll come to you.
Funny, Kid.
Seriously.
They’re bringing my discharge paperwork now.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CORA
Over the past couple of days, I’ve managed to stay pretty much confined to my room. An occasional short stint to the kitchen for a granola bar or two to tide me over, then back in my room, safely behind my locked door.
I can’t hide from Adam forever, but every day that I do is better than nothing. While the cuts and bruises on my face will heal—and hopefully well—what he did to my back has ruined me. I will never be as valuable as I once was to Madame.
High-end escorts are a fantasy. While fantasies come in many sizes, shapes, and colors. No one is seeking out a mutilated, petite blonde.
I know what that means for me.
My days in this house are limited. She’ll keep me around for a while, but when she realizes that I’m not doing anything for her—that I’m useless—she’ll offload me.
Why didn’t she just sell me to Samuel?
A gentle knock on the door startles me from my thoughts. The voice that follows causes bile to rise in my throat.
“Are you going to open the door for me today, little bitch?”
“Not a fucking chance,” I shout.
“Why not?” Adam teases as he jiggles the handle. “We had so much fun last time I got to play with you.”
We have very different ideas of fun.
Mine definitely doesn’t involve being pinned to a counter and having a knife carved through my skin. Or being forced to clean the formerly pristine white granite as sticky blood continued to trickle down my arm. And it absolutely doesn’t include any of what he has in mind from the other side of that door.
“It’s too bad you don’t want to play.” My stomach drops when I hear a key slide into the door and the knob turns. Opening the door and stepping inside, a devilish smile spreads across his face as he says, “Because I fucking do.”
Trapped, with nowhere to run, I do the only thing I can. Scream.
Adam barrels toward me, covering my mouth with his massive, meaty hand as he drives me into the wall. The open wound on my back grinds against the textured wallpaper, and I scream against his palm in pain.
“What’s the matter?” He licks the tear rolling down my face. “I’ve heard all about your last job. I’d think you like it fucking rough.”
“Fuck you!” I yell the muffled words into his palm.
“Fuck me?” he snickers as he throws me across the room. Hitting the bed, I’m unable to keep my balance, and I fall against the mattress. Before I can manage to get up, he’s on me.
Even with his forearm wedged firmly between my shoulders, shoving my face into the mattress, and his hips pinning mine to the edge of the bed, I can’t miss the distinct sound of him flipping open his switchblade.
